


Somniloquy

by iammemyself



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammemyself/pseuds/iammemyself





	

‘Somniloquy’

 

 

Sometimes, if you’re up early enough, you can hear him talk.

Not to anyone in particular.  Not that you know of, anyway.  You don’t ask.

On occasion you don’t even know what he’s saying.  You don’t know if it’s another language or just gibberish.  It might be both.  It’s probably both.  It’s hard to tell unless you happen to catch a snippet of an accent you’re familiar with.  You dislike not knowing, but it’s not anything you can change.  Much like him, really.  Thought of that way, it’s almost comforting.

Other times he seems to have the sole purpose of amusing himself; this he does during the day too, but more coherently.  And sensically.  At night he confuses his questions and his punchlines and his solutions and his setups all together, and despite that it ends up being funny to the both of you anyway.  You don’t mind this.  It’s terribly cliche, but if he’s happy you’re happy. 

The worst days are when he whispers to someone.  His hand curls a little against the sheet and his brow creases just the slightest and his breaths skew uneven, and he whispers.  Apologies and polite requests and rationales.  He always asks.  He never begs, and you don’t think it’s out of pride.  On the very worst of nights he cries.  The tears are those of someone frustrated to the breaking point, and you hate them.  And you hate the way he asks that someone to stop.  Because he shouldn’t have to ask.  He shouldn’t have to ask at all.

You want to wake him up then, and you sit there with a beat in your throat as you try to think of a reason that will satisfy him, but you can’t because your thoughts have tangled together.  So you have to wait and you have to watch, and all you ever decide on is to push the damp strands off his forehead.  They never stay back, but that’s fine; you want the excuse to do it over again.  And you think about all the things he doesn’t want you to know he said.  Doesn’t want you to know at all.

_You wouldn’t be any less if you told me._

When he does snap awake he always knows, somehow; he doesn’t know exactly _what_ , but he does know.  Your touch is too gentle, maybe, or your brow not level enough.  But he’ll squint up and he’ll frown and he’ll ask, “What did I say?”

You hope that his eyes are too heavy still to see that your smile is a little too forced and you tell him he was telling those mixed-up jokes again.  He always protests this, insisting that if he said it it must make sense, and you smile and sometimes you tease and sometimes you just let him think that.  You never tell him the truth, and you won’t until he wants you to hear it. You’re not sure who is protecting who here.  Maybe you are.  Maybe he is.  It bothers you, but in the end it doesn’t matter.  There will be a one day, and you’ll be there when it comes. 

For now, you comfort him in secret, and wait for the time you can hold back the night.

It can’t come soon enough.


End file.
